


Child of the Fae

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Series: Child of the Fae [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When a maiden of the purest heart cannot birth a child of her own, Queen Titannia of the Fae will hear her plea and grant her a child of the Fae, but bewarned, Man of Bat, for it is a sin of the utmost malice, to let a Child of Fae wither and die. “</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Bruce finds him, he is pale, tiny, shivering, his lips are blue and his eyes pale and unfocussed.

He looks dead.

Bruce instantly wraps his arms around him, feeling dread pooling at his stomach as he desperately searches for a pulse and finds it faint and beating against his fingers, weakened.

He is on his way to the Batcave within seconds.

He won’t let him die.

——-

Dr. Fate appears behind him just as Zatanna pronounces Tim’s condition out of her range of magic and Bruce’s heart sinks – because he has done all in his power, in his knowledge, and nothing seems to make it better, nothing seems to help Tim get any warmer and he is desperate – his hands tightly holding his charge’s smaller one.

“It is fortunate that I found you Witch of Words,” Dr. Fate says ominously, walking towards the woman, only to stop at the gurney still holding the still teenager, his head tilting to the side.

“I’m kinda busy right now, Dr.,” Zatanna scowls, her ruby lips pursing in distaste.

Dr. Fate doesn’t seem to be listening to her any longer.

“Fate?” Bruce asks, red-rimmed eyes locking onto the other man’s own.

“You must forgive me, Man of Bat,” the magician apologizes, his hand hovering over Tim’s blue lips and sallow skin. “It has been centuries indeed since I’ve laid my eyes upon a Child of the Fae. I thought the extinct from this plane of existence.”

Zatanna’s eyes grow wide.

“A Child of the Fae? Impossible!” she gasps, turning to stare at the unconscious teen.

“Is it?” Dr. Fate asks back, his fingers pulling Tim’s hair back and examining the gentle curve of his ears, and how they seem more pronounced than they used to, how they appear to compliment his pale skin in their minuteness. “This boy is a Child of the Fae alright, most likely brought upon this land by the tears of a maiden, judging by the shape he has presented himself in.”

“Child of the Fae,” Bruce snaps. “Stop the riddles and explain, Fate.”

It is Zatanna who replies, however, her eyes wide in awe.

“When a woman of a pure heart cannot be granted the joy of motherhood she so seeks,” she recites from memory. “She might be chosen by the Goddess with a Child of the Fae to fulfill her wishes, a child of two world brought upon as the one that will change the tides and heal the wounded.”

Bruce’s eyes widen and, of course, he should have known all along that something about Tim was different from his other Robins.

No one in the world should be so forgiving and resilient, so loyal and…

No, of course Tim had to be special.

He will think about the implications later.

“How do I help him?” he asks, his fingers caressing the back of the teen’s frozen hand.

Dr. Fate turns to him, his hands folding behind his back.

“You must understand, Man of Bat, that this is a child born to love,” he explains patiently. “And it is love that has been keeping him alive to this day, without the love of those around him, he is to wither and return to the fae where he belongs.”

“He’s dying?” Zatanna interrupts her eyes wide.

“Without the thing that sustains him, of course,” Fate replies.

“Love,” Bruce repeats.

Fate nods.

“I do understand that you and your family were not sent to this plane to love, Man of Bat, but I also understand that allowing a Child of Fae to wither is a crime against all the realms, and thus I see myself forced to remove him from your care and to a more suitable environment for his recovery.”

Fate cannot take a step forward before he finds himself a Batarang at his throat and Bruce’s arms protectively wrapped around the limp body of his son.

He blinks.

“He’s mine,” the man hisses at the magician, his voice full of passion. “You won’t touch him.”

Dr. Fate stares.

Bruce’s brows furrow in thought and, with a sigh of relief, Zatanna whispers to Fate that everything will be alright.

The Child will survive and flourish, she is sure of it.

———-

Tim opens his eyes, confused and dizzy to realize he’s back at the Manor, the pale light of winter sneaks into the room through the window – and he is particularly sure they were in summer just a second ago, he could swear it even – and the cold of the snow is warded off by the mountain of blankets piled on top of him unhelpfully.

“Huh?” he asks, frowning. “This isn’t my room.”

“It is now,” Bruce’s voice replies and Tim feels his whole face flush in embarrassment when he looks up and realizes his comfortable pillow is really his mentor’s thigh and how on earth did this happen? “Don’t move, you are still sick.”

“I’m… sick?” Tim whispers back, trying to sit up and realizing he has been strapped to Bruce’s massive bed in a way, because his chest is heavy and he can’t move his arms.

“You worried us to death, Tim,” another voice whispers in his ear and suddenly the straps holding him are caressing his arm and, really, he should have realized it’s not a strap but Dick’s muscled arm holding him against his side.

“Dick,” he says, confused.

“You slept for almost a year, Tim,” Dick pouts, his eyes dull and wounded. “I thought you would never wake up.”

“Don’t scare us again,” a third voice calls, and Tim is now terribly away of the soft breasts pressed against his left shoulder and the slender fingers caressing his hair.

“Cass,” he says, gulping.

“Little brother must rest,” she whispers, kissing his hear. “We love you.”

Dick laughs in relief, snuggling to Tim’s right side at the same time that Cass nuzzles his hair with her nose and he really,  _really_ wants to call out for help because, Bruce! They are practically molesting him, but the older man is just looking at the three of them with a small smile of satisfaction on his face that seems more dangerous than anything Tim has ever seen.

He remains silent and lets them, not sure he wants to know why.  

——-

It takes him a week to start walking again and most of the time a little excursion through the house leaves him winded and tired, and he could swear he can see Bruce writing on a little pad some notes about  _15 or so years of neglect against overdosing on needed spiritual nutrients_  but, of course, he must be mistaken because Bruce has never been the religious type and he is most likely indulging the rest of the family of their fright of losing another child and yes, he won’t be the next Jason Todd if he can help it.

And speaking of Jason…

“Baby Bird, you can’t go running around without your shoes,” the other teen growls, just as Tim feels strong arms wrapping around his legs and pulling him towards one of the fussiest carpets of the house, gently depositing his body on the couch and bundling him up in one of Alfred’s usually crocheted blankets like a little worm-and/or-baby.

He scowls.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking myself, Jason,” he says, his voice still a little raspy with disuse.

“And yet you don’t take care of yourself,” the other man says, plopping by his side. “Plus you should stop the Demon Brat before he makes my ears bleed.”

Tim sighs and will not comment how unnerving is that Jason moved back to the Manor and is always hanging around him whenever Dick and Bruce are busy, making sure he eats and always has a thick blanket around himself.

He thinks Jason must have been frightened by the thought of another falling to his fate – replacement or not – and is pulling all the repressed needs of his to be a protector and needed and focusing them on Tim’s weakened body and, yes, Tim feels bad and at the same time grateful because it took his near death experience to get Jason and Bruce to stay in the same room without coming to blows and yes, he is happy for them.

“Todd, you are definitely going to suffocate Timothy if you continue,” Damian scolds as he enters the room, a book held carefully in his hands.

Tim has to smile because, while Jason is a little sad bundle of issues and psychological trauma, he can only feel warmed by the care Damian uses whenever he approaches him, gently holding his hand to check his temperature and his pulse while he rests on his knees by the couch, reverently staring at the older teens.

Despite his assassin upbringings and all, Damian is still a child and must have been scared when the whole house went mad with grief over little old Tim, he must have never faced death of a family member quite like this, a non-violent, agonizingly slow death-prospect and yes, he is flattered their Demon Brat did a three-sixty and is now constantly hanging around, asking for his advice.

No, might feel guilty, but he will not complain.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Todd is making fun of my pronunciation,” Damian frowns, his cheeks flushing. “Father will be meeting Mr. Saravia soon and it is unacceptable that I cannot hold an intelligent conversation with the man while father plays the fool.”

“But he speaks so funny Saravia is going to laugh his ass off!” Jason chuckles, lighting a cigarette and standing to walk towards the window, if only to keep the smoke away from their frail Timothy.

“Let’s hear it,” Tim says, straightening a little.

Damian sighs, opening his book.

“Considerandoh ell direccion del proyecto ojetivo,” Damian tries. “La mejor opción seria Catalonia.”

Tim tries to keep his smile at bay while Jason openly and loudly laughs, hand slapping his own knee in mirth.

Damian flushes, hands tightening.

“It’s not bad,” Tim sighs, pulling the book from Damian’s tight fists. “But you are trying too hard on the Latin American pronunciation while it would be logical of you to lean towards a more Spanish lisp. Considering you have been with your mother for most of your life and she is not from the continent.”

Damian’s eyes grow wide, his knees pulling him closer to the other boy as Tim patiently explains where he has failed and gently coaches him on every vowel and consonant until the words are flowing easily from his lips.

Tim won’t admit it – not even under torture and threat of death – but the superior smirk Damian shoots Jason when he has been deemed perfect fills him with infinite warmth, especially when the boy’s fingers caress his own and his head rests on Tim’s lap in gratitude.

And all it took for him was to die, apparently.

——-

Tim has become accustomed to his new routine by the end of the fourth month, he spends his day with Alfred or Jason or Damian, studying, working on W.E. or even relaxing in the gardens. Once a week he endures Leslie’s prodding and poking and pretends to preen under her proud exclamations over his fast recovery if only to see Bruce’s chest swell with pride.

At night he goes on patrol with someone else from the family, usually Dick or Cass and whenever he is needed at the Titan’s Tower Damian holds his hand and demands that the clone and the others show respect for his older brother.

Once his day ends, he will always fall asleep cuddled to someone, be it Dick, Cass, Jason, Damian or Bruce himself, depending who is available and who has caught more rouges during the night – and no, he won’t think himself a tasty treat to the winner, he’s not that conceited – and he has realized he never slept as well as when there are muscled arms wrapped around his waist and powerful legs tangled with his own.

How come he lived for so long with this kind of contact?

He is not sure, but a year ago he would have shied away from them all with all his might and, most probably, a panic attack to boot.

He guesses dying and coming back in a non-lazarus induced rage has its perks.

For now, though, he patiently listens to Alfred as the old man teaches him how to sift the earth around the roses in the garden without damaging any of the delicate roots because the Englishman has really wanted to do this for a while, but his bones are not what they used to and his back aches after a while and sure Master Timothy’s delicate hands are better suited to this job than Master Dick’s overzealous ones.

Alfred blinks, eyeing curiously the way Tim’s fingers seem to carefully run over a shriveled stump of dried branches and thorns, examining the plant curiously.

“Hey! Tim!” Dick calls suddenly, breaking the afternoon quiet with its warm boisterousness. “Your friends are here!”

Tim’s eyes light up as he sees Kon and Bart standing behind Dick, waving video games at him with twin grins of delight.

“Go, Master Tim,” Alfred says, smiling. “I’ll bring you a snack as soon as you and your friends are settled in the sitting room.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Tim’s smile is sunny in its shyness and the old man feels the urge to run his aged hands through his black hair, which only makes his foster grandson flush before running to join his friends.

From the window, Bruce observes their interaction, his own lips curling into a satisfied smile as he notices that the branch Tim had been caressing, all dried and dead, is slowly sprouting the greenest leaves and small ruby red petals once again.

“We’re making it,” he whispers to the others in the room with him. “He’s never going to die.”

Jason nods from his seat at the foot of Tim’s bed, his arms wrapped around the teen’s pillow.  By his side, Cass nods as well, her head resting on Jason’s shoulder comfortably.

Damian sighs, wondering outloud why they have to share their Child of Fae with those buffoons Tim calls friends but is resigned when his father’s scowl mirrors his own.

“For now, Damian,” he says. “But one day, we will move forward.”

The rest of the family’s eyes glint in the shadows, untold hunger sparked by a desperate need to protect.

“Tim will never need for love again.”


	2. Chapter 2

Janet knows she is dying, she can feel it in the bile trying to force its way into her mouth, and the sluggish way her body just refuses to move as she would have liked it to.

She’s going to suffocate painfully on her own vomit, she’s sure.

 

She bites her lips, drawing blood and smirking at the rush of adrenaline spreading through her limbs that allow her fingers to grasp and snap the thin silver chain that has hung around her neck – and it should hurt, she knows, her skin has always been so delicate, but her body is shutting down and she can’t feel a thing – and crushing the diminutive silver locket that has hung over her heart for more than ten years against the soiled ground once, twice, until white rivulets of steam are rising into the air from the cracks she has managed to make.

It’s such a beautiful sight that it brings tears to Janet’s usually cold blue eyes, especially when a creature out of her deepest fantasies appears in front of her, as if born from the mist itself, and stares at Janet’s dirty, twitching form with preternatural dark eyes.

“Dearest Janet Maiden,” the apparition greets, a hint of concern in her eyes. “What has befallen you?”

“I’m dying, your majesty,” the woman gasps, struggling to curl her lips into a softer smile, the one she only wears around her son.

“I will save your life, then,” the queen says blinking in confusion when Janet shakes her head.  “I can only grant you one wish, Janet Maiden.”

“I know, my queen, but I would rather ensure my son’s continued happiness,” she whispers, closing her eyes. She remembers Timothy’s small smile, the way he clings to her hand when he feels insecure, how his soft blue eyes light up with enthusiasm whenever he is presented with a puzzle, how he always seems to know where she is and what she needs, even before she knows it herself.

Her magical little boy.

“I want him to be loved forever,” she says finally. “That he never has to feel lonely again.”

The Queen nods.

“State your wish, then, Janet Maiden, for I will make it so,” she whispers. “But have in mind that I will take your life in exchange of this wish.”

Janet smiles.

“I wish that the people who genuinely love Timothy will never die,” she says, forcing her slack mouth to articulate her words as clearly as she can. “That as long as they love my son truly, death will not be able to touch them.”

The Queen kneels by her side, ice-cold hands caressing her feverish skin. The back of her eyes fills with glorious light and warm images of forests and fields swim in front of her eyes. Timothy is there, on the field, his smile wide and loving, his small hands stretched towards her.

“Come, Mamma,” he calls, voice melodious. “Let me help you rest.”

“I’m coming, Timothy,” she whispers back. “Mamma wants to be with you forever.”

Her fingers touch Timothy’s.

Their eyes meet…

… And Janet knows no more.

***

Jack is standing in his sitting room, eyes bloodshot, hands trembling. He can’t believe this can happen. Not when Danna finally decided their family is stable enough to welcome a new member in their home, and he loves Tim, he really does, but Tim is not  _his_ \- he can’t forget their baby Theo, so still and purple and just  _dead_ , and Janet buried him on their backyard, under her favorite plum tree and no, he should have had a proper burial, a proper gravestone, a proper mourning period, not being replaced by a fistful of fairy dust and good wishes - and yes, he wants what’s best for him, always will, but Danna can give hi, a son, a real son, his own flesh and blood in ways Janet’s barren womb could not so, no, he can’t die, won’t die, refuses to die.

Tim is on the  _p_ hone and he sounds loving and frightened, urging Bruce - Batman - to hurry, to save him and Jack tries to ignore the voices on the back of his head that viciously whisper than Tim will always love Bruce Wayne more, will always be more of his son than Jack’s and that his baby Theo would have loved him better, would have picked him over that psychopath and he wants to  _live_ to see it happen.

“I love you,” he tells Tim. “I love you, don’t save me, I love you, son.”

The words pour out of his mouth despite his own interests because there are tears streaming down his cheeks and he wants to beg Bruce to save him, to hurry and save him because he can finally get his baby Theo back, Danna can give him his son back and it’s not fair.

But the words, those treacherous words come and he feels fright pooling on his stomach.

Not because there is a hitman on his way to kill him, but because his mouth is moving on his own, his body frozen still, and Janet’s frigid, accusatory eyes are staring back at him from the mirror and she looks like a creature born from his darkest nightmares, pale, gaunt, cheeks sunken and thin lips pulled back into a snarl that shows her rotten teeth.

A walking corpse coming to retrieve him.

“You failed, Jack,” she hisses with maddened glee. “You don’t love Timothy, you don’t love our son.”

Jack takes a step back.

“That’s not my son, Jan,” he tries to reason, hands rising in a plead. “I loved him all I could but I need to face reality. He is not real. He was never real, Janet!”

“He’s our son,” Janet replies, eyes narrowing. “The son that will love us forever. You should love him back.”

“Janet, please,” he begs. He can feel the hitman behind him, mocking him, but his eyes are glued to his wife’s and her wicked smile.

“If you can’t love our Timothy,” Janet cackles, you don’t deserve to live, Jack.”

Pain blossoms in his chest and the world seems to darken before his eyes, Janet continues to laugh, skeleton thin fingers pointing at him and Jack can only utter a soft:

“T… T… Son,” before the breath leaves his body permanently.

***

Bruce is floating, skin scorched, eyes heavy and oh, so terribly tired. The road has been so long for him, so restless.

He is sure his parents will forgive him if he stopped for a few minutes to rest.

Only a few minutes.

The bats are looking at him, screeching in his ears. Words fly over his head, unintelligent gibberish loud and disgusting.

He wants to ignore it, sleep, but there is a softer, faint murmur that floats over the noise, barely able to reach him over the murmur of words and shrieks. The beautiful song of a small bird caresses his consciousness, warming it with its sunny rays of light and there are words in that song, tender words that finally pierce the noise and make perfect sense to his battered mind.

“I know you,” he whispers weakly. “Tim.”

He is still tired and in pain and nothing would be better than to fall asleep, surrounded by that song but he can picture Tim’s hands clinging to his arm as he tries to protect the boy from the sight of his father’s corpse, his soft sobs echoing against his neck.

How those pale blue eyes grow darker and darker as his friends and loved ones die one by one and he can’t help but think that if he goes to sleep - if he lets go - Tim will be alone.

Because Jason is far too broken to try to reach to him, Cassandra won’t know how to comfort her younger brother, Tim will never be able to trust Stephanie ever again and Dick will have to split his time between being Batman, Damian and Tim himself and yes, he loves Dick, he really does, but he knows Dick will always choose the youngest child over the oldest and Tim cannot be put in second place right now.

“You swore he would never have to be alone again,” he tells himself as he starts to struggle against the darkness, the bats, and the noise. “You swore on your parents’ graves.”

The dark sludge that was clinging to his essence starts falling in clumps into the floor, sizzling and steaming before disappearing into the air, trying to suffocate him, drown him. But he can hear Tim’s fear in his voice, the distress and sheer panic of watching him in such pathetic state.

No.

He won’t be the puppet for Darkseid’s machinations.

He won’t hurt Tim.

He roars with animalistic glee, feeling himself be free of the noisy darkness on his head.

Clark’s arms are around him, supporting him.

Diana’s worried face hovers over his line of vision.

His whole attention, however, is on Tim’s soft, small, shy small of relief, his happiness, before a new, more welcomed sort of silent darkness envelops him and he can finally rest.

***

He approaches Tim as soon as he is able to walk straight, places both hands on his thin shoulders, warming the cool skin under his fingers.

“You were very brave,” he whispers, smiling lightly when the young man leans into his chest, basking in his warmth.

“You would have done the same for me,” he whispers back with such unbreakable trust that Bruce feels humbled and powerful at the same time.

He is not sure he deserves such adoration.

“Dick did a good job as my replacement,” he says awkwardly, eyes lost on the way Tim’s black hair flutters with the wind.

Tim’s shoulders tense minutely, his hands release the rail and slowly turns to stare at him, eyes full of suspicion.

“What is it, Bruce?” he asks. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Bruce huffs, knowing he should have guessed that Tim would know him that well. They were, after all, the best of partners.

“You do know that you can come back to the fold whenever you want?” Bruce says finally, letting his eyes stray into the night lights of the city. “You are the Robin I chose, and the one I wanted by my side for all times.”

Tim’s gaze lowers.

“You would let me become Robin again?” he asks, hesitant.

“Without a second thought,” Bruce assures. “One word and you are back at my side, Tim. You know that.”

Tim bites his lips, looking small and young and sweet, like Bruce has always remembered him. Like he wants to remember him forever.

“I can’t,” he says finally, hands slowly clenching into fists. “I’m sorry Bruce, but I can’t.”

“You don’t want to be my partner any longer?” Bruce asks, confused and hurt – yes, he will admit it, he is hurt – because he has never thought Tim would be able to say no, to break away from him.

Never Tim.

“I will always want to be your partner,” Tim assures. “You will always be Batman to me, nothing will change that!”

“But you won’t be Robin,” Bruce growls, trying to cover his hurt.

Tim sighs, shaking his head.

“Robin is no longer your partner, Bruce,” he says seriously. “It became a symbol while you were gone, the holder of Batman’s love.”

“My…”

“It was nothing anyone would prevent,” Tim interrupts, his hand reaching for Bruce’s cheek and his skin is so cold, as cold as ever and Bruce wants to wonder if Tim is ever warm.

“I don’t want you to leave, Tim,” he tries.

Tim’s smile is impossibly sweet, terribly pained.

“I came to you when Batman needed a Robin,” he says simply, tilting his head. “And I became the Robin you needed.”

“I still need you, I will always need you,” the older man argues. “Batman will always need a Robin.”

“Yes,” Tim agrees, smiling. “But this time, Robin needs Batman more than I could ever need him.”

Bruce takes a step back.

“You mean Damian,” he accuses, frowning.

“I mean Damian, yes,” Tim nods. “It hurt so hard when Dick took Robin from me, I can’t even explain how much, but…”

He hesitates, his teeth once again sinking into his bottom lip.

Bruce waits.

“But I also know how much it hurts that your father wants another child, the child that you will never be,” the teen finally explains. “Damian will always be your son in ways I will never be able to, Bruce, he will always need you in ways I will not.”

***

Damian launches himself at Tim’s neck, teeth bare and hands clenched into claws set to destroy his enemy.

“You!” he snarls. “I do not need your pity, Drake!”

Tim takes the abuse with a tired sigh, not even a blink to demonstrate distress over the attack

“I will remember that if I ever want to pity you,” he says, shrugging his aggressor off his back with one fluid movement, dusting his shoulders and running careful fingers through his messy hair. “What happened to you this time?”

Damian’s eyes darken, his breathing coming out in enraged huffs as he straightens himself.

“I know Father asked you to go back and be his Robin,” he hisses. “You rejected him arguing I needed the suit more.”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“I said you needed him more than I did, not the suit,” the teen corrected, reaching for his steaming cup of coffee. “And I was right.”

Damian stops his hissing, his eyes widening a little in surprise.

“He would have welcomed you back to his side with open arms,” he whispers. “Why?”

Tim sighs again, taking a seat by the kitchen table and sipping his coffee.

“I was the Robin that appeared when Batman needed a Robin,” he says, smiling. “Now Robin needs Batman and it’s his turn to do the right thing.”

Damian sits by his side, eyes guarded.

“If you become Robin he would be what you need,” he says, tilting his head. There is something in the air, some soothing quality that mellows his mood and drowns his rage into childish curiosity. He has never felt like this before and will most likely blame Drake’s non-threatening ways on his apparent surrender.

Tim’s eyes leave his and land on his coffee, searching for something in the dark brew.

“I had a brother, once,” he says suddenly, letting his long, doll-like eyelashes fan the air as he blinks. “An older twin.”

Damian’s eyes widen.

“He was still born and I wasn’t, or so my mom told me,” Tim continues, undaunted. “My father loved him, still missed Theo till the day he died.”

“Mother always said that the first born is always the most important to any man,” Damian nodded wisely. Tim snorted.

“By that logic a child who is still born cannot be the firstborn,” he argues, shaking his head.

Damian scowls.

“Whatever, Drake,” he snaps. “What does that have to do with you rejecting my Father?”

Tim’s cup stops on its way to his thin lips, his eyes grow solemn at the same time as they lose themselves in a point of the universe Damian can’t see.

“I know how it feels that your Father loves another child in your stead,” he says finally. “That he looks at you and sees someone who will never need him as much as you do.”

Damian stares.

“I might not like you,” he continues. “But I won’t subject you to that. No child should ever feel that.”

Before Damian could reply -and he is not sure he would be able to reply to that- Drake leaves his chair, his fingers caressing the boy’s hair as he passes by and disappears through the door.

Damian feels a tear roll down his face.

He doesn’t stop it.

When the boy miraculously pulls through after being stabbed on the chest with a sword by his own super-powered clone, only to collapse on Tim’s arms, no one in the family wants to question it.

He is of Al Ghul blood, the Lazarus fumes he breathed during his childhood, an intervention of his Grandfather’s who doesn’t approve of the slaughter of children - especially those of his own blood - that saved the child from his grief stricken mother.

They whisper that he is been tamed by his brush with death and it is the reason why his violent tendencies stop, why his voice soften and his concentration sharpens into a more mission-oriented focus.

Why he tolerates the fleeting touches of Tim’s fingers as they card through his hair when they believe they are alone.

The family learns to enjoy their hard-earned union.

From preternatural meadows in the Land of the Fae, Queen Titannia watches her child fix what the whole of the Fae realm considered too broken.

She smirks.


	3. Laughter

_Tim likes walking around the city with mommy. She holds his hand in hers and patiently explains to him anything he doesn’t understand, tell shim the history behind each building, each statue, each gargoyle and smiles proudly whenever he recognizes a place from the books he has read before._

_He likes it best when mommy smiles, to him, her smile is the most beautiful._

_They stop in front of a bookstore this time, colorful displays announcing a sale, and mommy promises to buy him anything he can carry himself to the cashier in one trip._

_She likes to challenge him like that, make him think of outside of the box solutions to her riddles - he is already eyeing a small shopping cart someone must have forgotten to take back to the warehouse in the back of the store that he can push in front of himself if he is careful – and usually keeps her word whenever he manages to seemingly outsmart her._

_He is about to agree to her terms when he notices her eyes are set on a Peter pan themed display full of string lights supposed to simulate little fairies, her eyes melancholic, her smile small._

_“Mommy?” he asks, pulling at her hand gently._

_Janet turns to him, something indescribably sad in his eyes._

_“Did you know, Timothy,” she says, absently, her hand travelling to his hair. “That a fairy is born every time a babe laughs for the first time?”_

_He tilts his head, curious._

_“Every single one of them?” he asks. “No exception?”_

_Janet nods._

_“So, there is a fairy that was born out of your first laugh?” he continues to ask, eager. “One born out of Daddy’s?”_

_“Absolutely,” she replies, leaning to kiss his forehead._

_They enter the store in silence, Tim instantly reaching to put the little cart before him - much to his mommy’s amusement – when he decides he might as well ask._

_“Mommy,” he begins, hesitant. “Was a fairy born when I laughed for the first time?”_

_Janet stops in the middle of an aisle, her lips tight._

_“Of course there was,” she replies finally, her expression distant. “It sparkled like a diamond.”_

_“I wish I could meet it,” Tim mumbles, little hands caressing the backs of the thick books around him._

_“You might, one day,” his mommy replies, eyes sad. “But for now, just keep being my baby boy, please?”_

_Tim looks up at his mother in confusion._

_“What else could I be, mommy, don’t be silly,” he scolds._

_Janet kneels on the elegantly tiled floor of the store, arms tightly wrapped around her child, a mantra of ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,’ spilling from her ruby-red lips._

_The boy wraps his own arms around his mother’s neck, peppering her pale cheeks with childish kisses and soft whispers of ‘I know, mommy, I love you too,’ until he feels Janet is ready to let him go._

Tim opens his eyes, his whole body protesting in pain a he moves his head. He is strapped against a cold stone table of some sort, that much he can tell, and judging by the candle light and thick stench on incense, he guesses he will not be facing a mad scientist this time.

He is not sure the thought brings him any relief, though.

“You are awake, fae,” a voice calls from the shadows, making him tense.

“Who are you?” Tim asks, squinting to make out the silhouette of a robbed figure stating to his right. “What do you want with me?”

“Fae needs not worry about Pathkin,” the figure replies. “Pathkin will be good master to fae.”

Tim feels a headache – on top of everything else – approaching, especially when the… man? Reaches for his face with a skeleton-thin hand that made him feel dirty, soiled in some way.

“Why are you calling me fae?”  he asks, flinching. “And can you stop talking in third person, that’s super annoying.”

His cheek, as usual, was rewarded with a vicious slap.

Ah, familiarity.

“Pathkin!” another voice snaps sharply, making his attacker startle in fright. Tim starts gathering data of this new arrival – leader, obviously, - from the small, bare feet, to the shapely legs and cocked feet…

… holy shit.

“Talia Al Ghul?”

The woman scowls in hatred at him, as if the thought of him being able to recognize her by silhouette alone is insulting, he would have rolled his eyes if he was able to.

“Mr. Drake,” she greeted coldly. “I believe we are in need of a talk?”

“How about no?” he mocks, unable to help himself.

Talia clicks her tongue, a mocking smile on her ruby lips.

“Very well then,” she hisses. “You have something of mine within you, something I was denied of, and I want it back.”

“If that something,” Tim replies, smirking. “Was not yours to begin with, how can I give it back?”

The woman’s hand collapses against his cheek, her nails breaking his skin.

“It should have been mine,” the woman snaps. “When I went to claim it for my darling boy that wretched trickster queen said she had given it away to a woman in need! To you!”

“Lady, you are making no sense,” Tim retorted, rolling his eyes against the dizziness. “I’m no woman.”

He knows he should have kept quiet, he should have silently observed the situation and determined a course of action. Or he would have done so, years ago. Now, however, he feels playful and mocking, there is a childish sense of amusement running through his veins that he hasn’t felt since his mother was alive.

He feels free to speak with the laughing cruelty he was known for during his youth.

“I don’t need you to understand, Mr. Drake,” Talia seethes. “I just want you to return my rightful property to me.”

Once again, Tim has no idea what she means, and he is ready to tell her so when the… whatever that man is, Pathkin, sprays something thick and warm over his body, spreading the liquid with pinching fingers that mark his naked thighs when he does.

He coughs, not sure what is happening, but Pathkin is changing in a language he has never heard before – odd considering this is him – and he feels so dizzy. The world before his eyes, Talia, the sort-of wizard, everything is going out of focus and…

“Be careful!” Talia hisses. “Remember our deal, Pathkin. I give you the fae, but his spark is mine.”

Tim’s eyes widen because he is not sure what they mean by ‘spark’ but he knows that he doesn’t want  _her_ to have it. It is his. Just like everything he holds dear is his.

_Tim and his mommy walk home happily. Janet has paid the bookstore to ship the enormous amount of books her son managed to drag to the cashier back to their home and will be waiting for them by the time they arrive. The sun is setting and the city is going dark and Tim feels like it’ the best day ever, when his small frame bumps against the powerful legs of a man before them._

_Well, Tim bumps, Janet just places both hands on her child’s shoulders to steady him, her eyes glacially regarding the man._

_“Are you okay?”  the man asks, concern clear in his deep voice._

_Janet’s eyes regard him closely, recognizing Bruce Wayne from her school years, despite the makeup and obviously fake beard he is sporting – who is he trying to trick? – and the ridiculous east-side accent he is trying to pass up._

_“Timothy?” she asks, turning to her son and feeling how her skin loses all color._

_Timothy is staring at the man with eyes wide, lips lightly parted and pink cheeks. He is nervously shaking from head to toe and seems to be at the very edge of a panic attack._

_“Are you okay?” Wayne repeats, staring, tilting his head in confusion._

_Tim instantly wraps his arms around his mother’s leg, hiding his reddened face against her skirt._

_Bruce blinks, dark blue eyes full of confusion, before he leans his head back and laughs loudly, good-naturedly, his whole body reflecting his amusement._

_“He’s shy,” Janet defends her child simply, a mask of politeness slipping over her face. Bruce nods his agreement before offering them both another brilliant smile and a wave._

_“Can you release my skirt now, baby boy?” the woman says once they are left alone again._

_Her son obeys with an embarrassed pout._

_“Who was that, mommy?” Tim asks, offering his arms to his mother in a silent request to be held, to which she complies gladly._

_“That was Bruce Wayne in a ridiculous costume, baby,” she replies patiently, her hands caressing his hair. “The owner of that glass building you like so much?”_

_Tim shakes his head._

_“He’s Batman,” the boy whispers in awe._

_Janet laughs._

_“Oh? And how can you know that, my dear?” she has to ask, because her son’s fright is now something more understandable._

_The boy tilts his head to the side – much like Bruce just did a minute ago – lips pursed._

_“Because his laughter is powerful, it echoes inside of me,” he says absently. “There is a golden thread in my heart that pulses whenever he laughs and I can see all of him and he can feel all of me.”_

_Tim’s mommy hugs him tightly the rest of the day and takes a week off work to spend the time with him. He is not sure why, though, so he hugs her back just as tightly and never complains when she keeps him away from the news and newspaper that usually litter the house._

_Nor does he ask why when he hears her telling his daddy that they need to move back into the city._

He can’t see past the mist covering his eyes. 

He can’t hear pass the roaring of his own blood in his ears. 

He can’t feel but the scorching of the man’s magic washing over him. 

“Come, child, come and be one with me,” the man chants, skeleton-thin fingers caressing his naked thighs obscenely. “Greet your new master, child of the fae! I command you!” 

There is something rebelling inside his chest, something cold and heavy that whispers seductively inside of his head in a language that he has already forgotten, but there are claws growing in place of his ripped fingernails and the fangs that are stretching on his mouth until they pierce his split lips. 

There is no sense of moral or wrong in him as he finally is able to snap the silver chains around his burnt wrists and he lounges. 

An animal. 

A predator.

A monster seeking retribution. 

The sickening sound of the wizard’s bones breaking is music to his dazed self. 

He is a child of love. 

He can do anything for the love that is his. 

And Bruce and the others are his. 

The corpse falls to the ground, a sickening crack of his bones against the stone floor a satisfactory retribution to Tim’s ears.

He turns, a smirk curling his lips cruelly.

Talia takes a step back, her own eyes wide as she can finally see the boy, this brat that her father seems so enamored with, in all his monstrous glory.

“Step back now, woman,” he warms, his voice soft and whispery. “For you shall not perish tonight.”

Talia knows better than to try and mock him, her tongue would disappear from her mouth if this winged, deformed creature so wished, but she has never been cautious whenever her beloved is concerned.

So she surprises herself when she asks.

“You will let me live?”

The fae in front of her tilts his head back, hair falling over preternaturally bright eyes.

“Of course I will,” he replies nonchalantly. “Did you not hear me before?”

“Because of my family?” she has to ask, needs to know where she stands against this creature.

Tim’s laughter is as sweet as it is mocking.

“Your family?” he asks back. “You don’t have a family, Talia daughter of the Al Ghul. Your beloved and your child are not yours anymore, they are mine.”

Talia’s hands clench.

“You want them to love you, yes, but you can’t take them away from me anymore, woman, you never will. Bruce’s heart is mine, Damian’s heart is mine, and I could even take your precious Daddy’s heart for my own if I so wished, without even having much of an issue, for his desire tethers between what he knows and what he cannot control,” he continues, his eyes glinting with malice. “And I shall allow you to live with that knowledge. You will know that Bruce will eventually take me to his bed and love me like he has never loved you and so will Damian, they will caress my human skin and kiss my mortal mouth and their lives will be dedicated to my continuing survival. Oh, even when I show them this immortal frame of mine they will smile and fall to their knees with love for me, and they will continue to search for ways to keep my by their sides.”

One clawed hand runs through ink-black hair, dragonfly wings batting in obvious delight.

“And you will live through it all, you will watch by the sidelines as it happens for all eternity, seeking the reprieve of a death that shall never come. You will see our happiness for all times. Cold, unloved, alone.”

“I will kill you first,” Talia hisses, regretting her words the moment the fae starts laughing once more.

“You do that,” he mocks. “If you can. If they let you.”

The sudden whisper of steel cutting the air distracts her just a second enough for the fae to go back to his human guise and fall into a delicate heap on the ground, lips chapped, skin pale and wet with seat, face one of the most excruciating pain.

It is also enough time for her beloved and her son to land in front of her, weapons at the ready, hatred clear in their unmasked eyes.

“Beloved,” she whispers, tremulous. There is a trickle of blood from where Bruce or Damian or _both_  cut her and with a start, she realizes she has become their enemy.

Bruce is not even acknowledging her anymore, though. His eyes are on the child, his hands on his cold skin, on his damaged wrists.

“He took you from me,” she tries, feeling lame, alone. “He took your laughter from you, a laughter that should have been Damian’s to bear. Mine to own!”

Damian, the boy  who is no longer a boy but a young man before her eyes, turns to her, arms wrapped protectively around Timothy’s weakened frame, his eyes are blazing in ways that make Talia’s body shiver unpleasantly.

There is nothing of her darling boy in that matured face.

“You sick woman,” Damian hisses.

“Let’s go,” Bruce tells his son, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ever come close to my family again, Talia. Next time I will not be so forgiving.”

Talia falls to her knees, her body unable to support her under the way of such hate filled eyes.

Those eyes were supposed to love her, they were supposed to become her family.

Her sobs and her heartbreak are ignored as her beloved and her darling child leave her behind.

The fae gently cradled between them.

_Bruce scowls as Tim continues to celebreate with his so-called new team. The Young Justice is a bad idea, he thinks, just like the Titans were eventually bad for Dick._

_This whole new Robin issue is a bad idea._

_Impulse suddenly jumps onto Robin’s back and Superboy bellows his rage and mock-chases them both around the cave._

_Suddenly, Bruce feels something warm and fluttery like the wings of a butterfly echoing against his ribcage that fills the damp, cold recesses of his self._

_A memory of better times._

_He shakes his head._

_Robin has his arms around Impulse as they try to outrun Superboy._

_And they are all laughing._

_With a frown, Bruce looks on._

_Tim’s laughter is not bell chimes like Dick’s or a boisterous roar like Jason’s. It’s a breath, soft snort that can be barely heard over Superboy’s embarrassed shrieks, but it is heard and it is…_

_… beautiful._

_He feels calm,._

_And at once, he realizes he will do all in his power to hear that laughter again._

_That laughter that, unconsciously, he feels stems from his own._        


	4. Feeding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but I really needed to get it out of the way, I struggled a lot with it and I realized this was the best I was gonna get, so yeah. 
> 
> This is basically Wisiaden's fault, you can read her drable right here:   
> http://wisiaden.tumblr.com/post/115550486849/i-havent-written-anything-darkangst-y-in-awhile

Tim wandered the hallways of Wayne manor in the middle of the night, exhaustion thick on his skin, his muscles protesting his every move and yet unable to stop his wandering as his stomach twisted and turned violently in hunger.

Yes, he would be the first to admit he was one unable to eat one of Alfred’s full meals yet - he as sure the old man overstuffed his plate anyways - but he was never hungry and especially not hungry like this!

The scent of Bruce's cologne still lingered under his nose, the warmth of his massive hands branded his skin and those lips of his. Oh, that possessive mesh of teeth and lips and tongue marking him where everyone was able to see the following morning. 

Bruce kissed him.

Bruce bit him.

Bruce devoured him and he felt like something had awakened in him.

How he hungered now for that one indescribable thing.

He leaned forward against a door - whose door, he wasn't sure - his sweaty palms smearing onto the wood something that to his feverish mind seemed to glitter with a golden hue as he panted for breath with dry lips, thirsty. 

"Please," he whispered hoarsely. "Please."

He felt himself close his eyes as the world swam around him, his knees weak and trembling.

When he opened his eyes, however, the air felt a lot cleaner, a lot cooler, something sweet and indescribably satisfying slowly settling inside of him.

Also, he realized he was on his back on the couch, Bruce’s massive hands stroking his knees from where he knelt between his spread legs.

"B-Bruce..." he whispered.”Wha-"

"Shhhh," Bruce soothed, his voice deep. "You called for me, Tim. I was worried."

“I-I… did?” Tim asked, his voice tremulous as he did his best to focus. There was warmth in Bruce’s gaze, warmth, sweetness and something else that the teen had only seen a few times in the man. Something steel sharp and molten hot, something that he could only see when Bruce studied him as if he was a most difficult puzzle, an unsolvable obsession.

He shuddered.

\----

Bruce stared at him his baby boy for a moment, his little miracle maker, and idly wondered how  he would have been able to survive without this wonderful creature by his side, without whatever sort of connection that seemed to bind them together for all times.

Without feeling the ghostly fluttering of butterfly wings brushing against his ribcage whenever the boy laughed.

He ran a hand through Tim’s hair, frowning at the sweat that clumped his usually soft locks together and the freezing cold of his skin – and how can it be so cold, Tim’s skin, after all the work they’ve all put onto nourishing him, loving him – the feverish pallor of his skin.

He had been about to go to bed, that night, tired and a little bruised after another night of patrolling that had seemed unremarkable, in the grand scheme of Gotham City, but then the soft whimper had echoed inside his head, and Tim’s whispering voice had cried out to him: _‘So hungry, so weak, please… help…please’_ and he had dashed towards the house, following the link between them both, only to find the teen in a heap on the floor, his forehead wet with sweat, his breathing weak, his cheeks reddened and feverish.

“Bruce…” Tim whispered, pulling him from his thoughts. “What is… happening to me?”

Bruce felt himself flinch for a second, his hand still against the boy’s cheek.

“I don’t know…” he whispered back, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Tim. I don’t know how to help you.”

“I’m so hungry,” the boy moaned, his eyes half-lidded, pupils wide and dark bottomless, his lips parted, wet with sweat and saliva, as they reached towards the side to capture Bruce’s thumb between them, the tip of his tongue shyly caressing the pad of his finger.

Bruce felt his skin grow hot, his own pupils dilate and his pulse quicken as he finally realized what he had to do.

What he needed to do.

What he would do.

\----

Dick opened his door as he heard the faint echo of Tim’s voice down the hallway of the manor. The sweet smell of flowers and honey enveloping him as he finally made his way out of the doorway.

“What?” he asked to the air and the darkness as his hand came into contact with the wood of his door, sticky with something cool and wet, something golden and thick glinting under the faint moonlight. “What the…”

There was something inside of him whispering the dirtiest things in his ear, a wicked little voice pulling some of his most coveted fantasies and slowly playing them before his eyes for its sick amusement.

Dick felt himself flush, his blood boil and run like lava under his skin as the images came over and over to him, one more graphic and tantalizing than the other.

 _‘It’s okay…’_ the voice seemed to sooth his shame. _‘You don’t have to fear … just come and take it.’_

“Take… it?” he whispered to himself, his vision becoming blurred, hazy.

Tim’s voice echoed once more, but this time, instead of the distress he had associated it before, Dick could tell this was now a call.

Tim was calling him.

He needed to go to him.

With tentative steps - far too clumsy to be his own,- he travelled down the stairs, following the overpowering scent of flowers and life that seemed to have permeated the house in the few minutes he had been aware, and how it’s sweetness felt like a beacon guiding his every movement.

The light on Bruce’s study was on, casting shadows Dick had not seen since his childhood that made him stop for a moment, hesitate.

He swallowed, forcing himself to grasp the door handle and slowly peek inside.

"B-Bruce..." Tim whimpered as he ran a tentative hand over the older man's muscled arm. "I... I'm feeling it. I can feel you."

Bruce nodded, his hands sizing Tim's shoulders from behind, his lips gently caressing the teen's neck.

"Does it feel good?" he asked slowly, his tongue shyly tasting the thin layer of sweat on his baby boy's body. Tim nodded slowly, letting his head rest on the other's strong shoulder, his hands guiding the other's hands to rest on his hips.

Dick felt the roof of his mouth go dry and his tongue stick to it as he beheld the scene in front of him.

His baby brother, his Tim, was completely nude, precariously standing in front of the lit fireplace, held only by Bruce’s arms – their father’s arms, their mentor’s arms – as the older man, also naked, made his body sing the most delicious of songs.

"You are... so warm, so warm, Bruce," answered the teen.

Bruce smiled against his neck, his hands shy but steadily caressing the boy's skin, enjoying the feeling of his warmth. One of his hands found the other's pale pink nipples, so small and standing up to attention, and he could not resist the impulse to pinch them.

His other hand, wet and slick, slowly disappeared from Dick’s sight as it slid between the nest of Tim’s trembling legs in what, the other man could only assume, was preparation for more delights to come.

Tim moaned softly, arching his back. Dick marveled at the thought of how sensitive he must be to enjoy such minimal touch. Unconsciously his hand went to his own chest, running his fingers up and down his own nipple through his ratty t-shirt, eyes trained to Tim's pale blue ones.

He opened his mouth to speak, to moan, he wasn’t sure, but instantly swallowed his tongue as Bruce sat down on a leather armchair – the same spacious armchair he used whenever he worked, the same Dick remembered falling asleep into as a child, the same armchair he would never be able to look at again - and, with a swift movement, pulled Tim onto his lap.

The teen's blue eyes widened for a second, a breathless groan of pure delight escaping his lips, his mouth forming a gentle "O" as quiet moans caressed his lips. Bruce continued to kiss and suck on his skin, getting bolder by the minute.

"Bruce! Bruce!" moaned Tim, letting his hips move lightly. "So tender! You are so hot inside of me!"

The older man grinned, wrapping both arms possessively around the boy's waist.

"Tim!" he growled, hips thrusting upwards to meet Tim's - If Dick had any doubt about what they were doing, it certainly had cleared by then- "Let me be your sustenance! Let me keep you warm! Let me protect you!" His eyes closed in bliss when one of the teen's hands reached to caress his sweaty hair, the tips of his fingers massaging his skull.

"My… I..." Tim began, his eyes alight with desire. Dick by now had a hand down his pants, firmly grabbing his erection and shamelessly following the pace of Bruce's hips. He tried to imagine how tight Tim would be, which had to be a lot, considering Bruce's blissful expression. Somewhere, deep inside of him, he wondered what it would be like to thrust into that pale body, to sink himself into the passion that was their beautiful Timmy.

The desires of his body seemed to be catching up to him far faster than any thought in his head, apparently, because one moment, Dick was leaning against the doorway with his hand around his cock and his teeth sunk onto his bottom lip to muffle his own soft groans of pleasure, but the next…

The next he was walking boldly towards the pair, his feet silent against the carpet as he pulled his t-shirt over his shoulders, his swaying, muscles gleaming with sweat.

Bruce caught him first, his hands tightening their hold on Tim’s waist as he thrust inside the boy forcefully, teeth digging into his milky pale shoulder in order to leave his mark onto the skin, his dark blue eyes narrowed to mere slits.

Tim, on the other hand, cried out in pleasure, his head shaking back and forth in an effort to control his own reactions.

“D-Dick!” he moaned, his hand still buried in Bruce’s hair tightening, guiding their mouths together, their tongues dancing with eachother before whispering against the other man’s lips. “Let him… Dick is…”

Something crystalline and golden at the same time seemed to pass through Bruce’s dilated eyes, a sudden understanding morphing his face into a thing of loveliness – and for a moment, Dick felt jealousy course through him at the obvious closeness Bruce and Tim still held with eachother, the same deep connection he had once held with the teen – the older man finally nodded, his mouth curling upwards.

“Come, Dick,” he whispered, his throaty voice sending shivers down the other man’s spine. “Help me.”

Without any more encouragements, any word really, Dick found himself falling to his knees before the pair, his adam’s apple bobbed once, twice as he swallowed thickly in desperation.

And without waiting for any sort of confirmation, the man took Tim's right foot into his hands and started kissing and licking it. The feelings coursing through his body now, the need. God, it was like nothing he had experienced before. He was so beautiful and the sole thought of belonging to this beautiful man moaning and whining, bouncing over Bruce’s lap with wanton abandon in front of him was suddenly so worth it.

 Tim's skin was soft, a little salty due to his sweat, but so delicious, the scent of flowers and honey and spring and life itself overpowered all rational thought the young man could have held as he finally surrendered to his desires.

Tim closed his eyes tightly, prey to the sensations both men were causing him. Loud groans and seductive moans reverberated through the room as Dick’s lips and tongue painted a fiery trail up his thigh stopping just millimeters before his bobbing erection.

Bruce’s eyes caught Dick’s, his hands roaming Tim’s chest and pinching his erect nipples, his mouth sucking and biting his shoulder.

“Do it,” Bruce growled, his smile predatory. “He needs you.”

Dick nodded towards his mentor, his tongue reaching to taste Tim’s dripping cock, savoring each and every drop of precum as he did so, feeling the thrill of completion when Tim let out a soft cry of pleasure, his fingers dancing over his thighs and cupping his sack, doing everything in his power to bring his sweet little brother to completion.

He had expected Tim to taste… normal, sour and salty and all things men, but the ambrosia that greeted his tongue was definitely nothing he was expecting. The scent of flowers that usually clung to Tim’s skin seemed to translate into the taste of his skin as well, and Dick could easily imagine, as he swirled his tongue over the head of Tim’s cock, that this is what happiness should taste like, that nothing could ever- would ever compare to the perfection that was Tim.

It was all too much, so very much.

Tim arched his back, his skin glistening preternaturally against the light of the fire, his eyes closed in rapture, his mouth bruised with kisses.

"Come for me! Come for me now!" he ordered breathlessly. Dick’s eyes widened and he arched his back himself. He had not been touched, but his Timmy's words were definite, absolute. In seconds he was coming so hard he thought he would pass out. His lips and hands, however, never stopped pleasing his generous lover, eyes fixed on Tim's flushed and panting form.

Bruce growled low in his throat as he, too, came, his hands tightly holding Tim's hips, impaling him deeply and keeping him still. He had to give his fae child as much pleasure as he received.

As much as Tim deserved.

He was beautiful like this, twisting and coiling like a flame himself, prey to the pleasure – the _love,_ because this was all about the love the two felt for him, the devotion he inspired in them – they were showering him with.

So very beautiful.

Silence enveloped the room at last, softly interrupted by their muted, breathy pants as the three of them tried to regain their breath. Tim resting completely against Bruce’s slumped form, Dick’s forehead pressed against Tim’s bitten left thigh as the older men continued to run their fingers over his skin, as if moved by an unseen form.

Tim ran his trembling fingers through Dick’s sweat-soaked hair, his movements soothing, his skin warm once more.

His stomach full, so very, very full.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the still gaping doorway of the study, and Jason’s kneeling form resting against the doorframe, a hand inside his pants, a wet patch forming on the fabric as he too, tried to remain conscious.

He felt himself smile.

Poor little thing, he had not arrived in time to satisfy his fae and had only ended soiling himself before even entering the room.

With Bruce’s slowly deflating cock still inside of him, Tim felt himself twitch.

His smile widened.

Maybe some other night.

If the faint echo of Damian’s bed against the wall he could still hear from upstairs was any indication, there would be many nights to come.

The fae would feed again.


End file.
